


Clinging to Light

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amputation, Angband, Captivity, Cousin Incest, Forced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Melkor/Maedhros, Implied/Referenced Other/Maedhros, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sauron/Maedhros, Implied/Referenced Torture, Limb loss, M/M, Secret Marriage, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: As Findekáno crosses the Helcaraxë, Maitimo crosses boundaries he didn't know existed on the road to utter darkness.But the creature Mairon, with eyes that shine like forbidden fires, will not let him escape.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Angband fic guys, with all associated warnings. (note: this is not a rape as titillation fic, and all sexual assault is mentioned rather than explicit.)
> 
> For the first time (but not the last!), "General Maedhros-style warnings" apply (i.e. mentions of torture, rape, suicidal thoughts, despair, etc.)

The Oath that bound him to its dark service also bound his _fëa_ to his _hröa_. Maitimo hadn’t considered that. He did not learn it until he had been in Angband for several weeks.

Morgoth was patient. Maitimo hadn’t expected that. He had Maitimo chained in an underground dungeon, so deeply it might as well be a tomb, and simply shut the door.

It seemed as if Morgoth wanted him to starve. Therefore, Maitimo decided he would not do so. He had always been the most stubborn son of Fëanor.

It was obvious, when Morgoth was about, or uneasy. The small creatures of the earth, such that wriggled and crawled and scuttled under even the stone caverns of Angband, grew restless, when the Master of Shadow moved. After two weeks of being chained, Maitimo caught his first rat, broke its neck, and tore the flesh from the bones with his teeth. Sometimes, he felt the prickle of an overwhelming mind against his own, seeking and searching, prodding for weaknesses. On those days, he closed his eyes and his mind, and thought of walls. His father had taught all of them long ago to resist any intrusion into their thoughts. He’d been most stern with Maitimo about it, though Maitimo had never known why.

The door to the dungeon opened. Maitimo squinted in the dim light, which nearly blinded him after so long in utter blackness. It was just a candle, but after a month in the blind dungeon, it may as well have been Laurelin in full fruiting.

The figure who entered was an elf, or looked like one. As Maitimo’s eyes adjusted, he saw the lovely, red-golden-haired elf bow low, elegant robes sweeping the floor. “Hail,” the elf said. “High King Nelyafinwë.”

His voice was strange. At first, it danced and sang, mellifluous in a way that reminded Maitimo of his eldest brother. But the tune was all wrong, the music discordant with a small dissonance, a deliberate misstep in the music of his speech.

“My name is known to you, creature,” he said, in the calm tones that had often infuriated his father. “Will you tell me yours? Or shall I give you a name suitable to your dark nature?” His father had been a great namer of enemies. Surely he could do that much.

The figure straightened up, a small, gleeful light in its eyes that could never have belonged to any of the Eldar. “Bring him,” it said, and the awful stench of those misshapen creatures called _orcs_ filled his dungeon.

They seized him, and rent his chains free from their anchors, dragging him to his feet. He was far taller than even the largest of them, but they were thick and broad, and even the feel of their shriveled, mangled skin against his made his gorge rise.

They dragged him up the stairs, the elf-shaped creature in front of them walking smoothly up the craggy, uneven steps hewn into the mountains, as the orcs stumbled and jostled, yanking him from side to side. Maitimo said nothing. They had taken the sword Curufinwë had made for him, and shattered it on the stones when he was captured. It lay upon those stones still, as far as he knew, along with many valiant soldiers of his father’s house, broken because of his own arrogance.

It was no mere cave, but a massive great cavern that they dragged him to, so large he could have marched his entire host inside, and all his Uncle’s host too, and still had room for banquet tables. Upon the dark throne in the corner sat The Enemy, and in his crown, the three Silmarils.

A jarring note of longing shot through him, and he nearly ripped himself free of his captors to launch himself bodily at Morgoth, so desperate was he to have a hand upon one of his father’s priceless jewels at last. But his captors were many, and he was chained, and his brief struggle availed him nothing but a delicate laugh from the elf-creature.

“Behold, Master,” announced his jailer. “The High King of the Noldor, Nelyafinwë the Exile.”

The Vala’s mighty head turned towards him. Maitimo did not quail. He could not. Mighty Morgoth was, and powerful enough to destroy him with a single blow. But he was also The Enemy, and no son of Fëanor would dare to show weakness to that shadow, least of all the eldest.

“Beautiful,” Morgoth pronounced slowly, as if he were sealing Maitimo’s doom. "I know him of old. Well do I recall you drawing the eyes of all in the streets of Tirion, as if you had any right to fealty, lesser son of a father my creatures have already broken. Nearly as vain as your fair brother, Oromë's pet. But you..."

Then, suddenly, his mind was assaulted. It was not the prickle or poke he’d practiced against with his father, but a full assault, a battering ram aimed behind his eyes. Maitimo sucked in a breath, and slammed up what walls he could, repelling the invasion before anything was lost.

Morgoth laughed, a sound that made Maitimo’s skin crawl, though he dared not rub at his arms. “Good, he will take some work to break. I would expect no less from the son of Fëanaro. I’d hate for you to grow bored already, my pet.”

“All for your pleasure and glory, Master,” said the elf-creature, bowing low.

“Bring him back when he may provide me some amusement.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And Mairon?”

“Yes, Master?”

Morgoth’s head tilted, and Maitimo felt the weight of that stare on him again. “Leave him pleasing to behold. For now.”

The elf-creature’s smile was too-large, eyes reflecting more light than the dim torches cast. “Yes, Master.”

~

Mairon took him to the forges. “The heir of Fëanor,” he murmured, his eyes aglow in a way that made Maitimo want to stab them out. “What wonders you could teach me, what insights you can give. I shall be ever so kind to you, my Master’s orders or no, if you share with me your father’s talents.”

The first time, Maitimo refused.

Mairon smiled at him, as though this were a gift Maitimo had given him, and brought in a soldier that had fought with him at the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, and been taken prisoner the same day Maitimo had. “Wait,” Maitimo protested, but Mairon did not heed him.

He thought the soldier’s name was Teledáno, or Telegastë. He had a brother. Maitimo remembered them from the ships. One of them had carved Telperinquar a small flute. They were both unflinching in battle.

“I’ll help you forge,” he tried again, as Teledáno--yes, this one was Teledáno, Telegastë had died at the Dagor-nuin-Giliath in Fëanor’s vanguard, this was the one that had warm brown hair that reminded him of his mother--looked to him, his Captain, his King, in panic, as the orcs came in at their master’s call.

Mairon gave him a pleasant, somewhat confused look. “I know,” he said calmly, and then to his creatures, “Rape him to death.”


	2. Chapter 2

When the ice cracked, it sounded like an explosion--but not at first. First, there would be a low sound, almost a moan, inaudible if everyone were walking together. Findekáno learned the sound early, and split a party off to go ahead of the main host. His bow and harp, he tucked securely away onto his back, bound with woven cords. Now he carried a small axe in one hand and a rope in the other fastened securely to the axe haft, and learned the use of them well.

When the ice moaned, he had three heartbeats to identify the crack. It became routine. Find the crack. Decide which side was likely to slide off. Sprint to the other side. Strike hard and true, burying the axe into the ice. Toss the rope to anyone on the other side. By then, three heartbeats would have passed, and the ice would break, a thundering explosion that hurled anyone unprepared into the ocean.

If he was right about which side was stable, his men would grab the rope, and climb to safety with him. If he was wrong, they would grip the rope tight, and he would wrench out the axe, then climb the rope back to them. No matter which, it would leave him battered, freezing, exhausted, and hungry.

The ice broke under him at least ten times a day. It only took one mistake, one slip, and then he’d be under the frozen ice, or ground to bits by the glaciers smashing against each other, so he did not make mistakes. He saw them made, though.

It was difficult to believe that just a few short months ago, he’d never seen anyone die.

But he was fast, and sharp, and not unwilling to bludgeon some of the strange, fat-lined creatures up here to death. It wasn’t safe to build fires on the ice, even if they had had the wood, so they cut the creatures into the smallest pieces as they could manage with frozen fingers and small axes, and ate them raw, gnawing the very bones.

Once every few weeks, they found a jutting plain of rock, and took turns clustering on it like a colony of ants, sleeping so deeply that some of them never awakened, letting their spirits slip out of their bodies.

It was never long enough. Findekáno watched his people growing leaner, sharper, more dangerous.

His brothers were as a rock under his feet, though, and Írissë a warming draught for their hearts. They reconvened often, in the vanguard, with the armies of Artanis, Ingoldo, Aikanáro, and Angaráto. “Take courage,” one of them would say, and they would clasp hands, bending their heads together.

The brutality of the ice was a balm, in a way. If the going had been easy, some of their kin may have peeled away and returned, seeking the mercy of the Valar after all. But to come so far, through such tragedy and hardship, only to return without a prize? Impossible.

When next they found the rocks, his cousins forced him onto it. “You sleep less than anyone,” Ingoldo informed him. “Sleep, or I will sing you to sleep.”

Artanis put a hand to her own axe, her eyes like steel. “Nothing will trouble you, cousin.”

When he was lucky, he dreamed.

~

When Maitimo was lucky, he dreamed.

Wrung out from Mairon’s little “games,” heartsick from the worst of them, half-delirious from the isolation, he dreamed.

Sometimes, Findekáno was there.

It was vanity, perhaps idiocy, that made Maitimo pull himself together for those dreams, as if he could hide what had become of him, what had been made of him.

The first time, Maitimo found himself in Findekáno’s room in Tirion, and naked. He knew immediately that it was a dream; there was no pain, so it could not be real. He looked down at himself, and hardly recognized the body for his own, unblemished and unmarked as it was.

Movement stirred next to him. Maitimo froze, pulse pounding, tensed to defend himself.

“Maitrus?” came the sleep-fogged voice, as if Findekáno could not quite rouse himself. A hand brushed softly against his back, and he forced himself to relax. No blows would come. No whip would lash. This was a dream.

Maybe he could have this much.

He turned, and laid a hand on Findekáno’s face--heartbreakingly lovely, a sight he never thought he could be privy to again. Was this only his dream? Was he truly visiting Findekáno? “ _Arimelda_ ,” he whispered, and eased himself down, turning to curl his arms around Findekáno’s warm, slumbering body.

Except Findekáno was cold, chilled through. Maitimo wrapped his arms around more tightly, tucking his chin over Findekáno’s shoulder, brushing gold-flecked black locks behind one ear. “Finno? Can you hear me?”

Findekáno nodded, a slow, jerky motion. When he looked up, his eyelashes were frosted, his lips blue. “You’re...very w-warm, Maitrus.”

“Then let me warm you.” At least in a dream, he could be of some use.

Time slid by. It was impossible to feel how much, in the odd, slippery dreamscape. Slowly, Findekáno came up to temperature, relaxing, turning to stuff his face into Maitimo’s chest.

Then he blinked, looking up and meeting Maitimo’s eyes. “Maitrus?” he asked again, more cognizant this time. “Are you...what’s happened to your hair?”

Maitimo’s hand flew up, but he already knew. The dream body was slipping away. Mairon had shaved his head the day before, hacking the length away with a dull blade that yanked and tore, cutting close to the scalp with a razor that dug into his skin, murmuring that he wanted it for a particular experiment of his, but not to worry, it would grow back before his Master lay eyes upon him again. Now the welts, the scourge marks, the machine’s biting bruises, the burns all over his back and arms were starting to appear again, as if he’d given too much of himself to Findekáno as warmth. At least he was still clean, the filth of Angband not following him to this dream.

He smiled. At least he could do that much. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, and pressed Findekáno’s face into his chest, as if his arms were still as strong as they once were, as if there weren’t stinging lines where Mairon’s creatures had clawed him across one pectoral, biting deep into the muscle.

“Are you...in Mandos’ Halls?” The words were a hesitant, terrified whisper.

“No.” He’d tried. When Mairon had mused over using him to ensnare his brothers, he’d prepared, had closed his eyes and tried to will his _fëa_ into the Halls. Mairon's attempts to ensnare his brothers hadn't worked, for they had abandoned him long ago. Worse, Maitimo's attempt to will himself to suicide hadn't worked, either.

Mairon would discover that any day. It was a particular fascination of his, to take an enemy he’d finished experimenting on, and turn them over to his creatures. He timed the act, seeing how long each elf took to suicide as they were violated, laughing in delight and mockery when they went quickly, breathing heavily and hotly whenever they lasted long. Each time, he touched Maitimo a little more familiarly, making him watch, whispering that he wouldn’t risk the High King leaving his body just yet, not _quite_ yet.

But he wouldn’t let the orcs or the balrogs or the wargs have the High King, he promised. The pleasure of raping _him_ to death was something he would save for his master. He hoped, he’d said in a breathless, shivering voice, that Fëanor’s heir would last long enough that Mairon could take a turn, too. Maitimo did not want to know what would happen when they realized he was too accursed to flee his body.

“No? Then where--“

Maitimo tilted his face up, and kissed him. He could feel the dream starting to fade, and kissed Findekáno harder, his hands clutching at the familiar, beloved form. “If--if I do go,” he said urgently, fumbling for Findekáno’s hand with his own, his fingers feeling battered and clumsy after the orcs had tread on his hands, “I’ll take the path of my grandmother Miriel, I swear it, so--be happy, Finno, _please_ , find peace--“

Findekáno grabbed for him, eyes wide and frightened. “Don’t go!” he cried, but it was already fading. “If you hold on--I’ll find you, wherever you are!”

“No,” he tried to say, but his tongue was stiff and heavy, and he was back in his body, back in the dungeon.

Mairon had given him company this time, he saw, and forced himself not to weep. He hadn’t had that many soldiers with him, the day he’d ridden out to Morgoth’s false treaty. He’d thought all of them dead long ago. He’d been in Angband at least two years, by his count, though he doubted it was accurate, with no way to mark the time.

But whenever he had been intransigent or defiant, Mairon produced another of the Noldor who had followed him, trusted him to lead. Maitimo knew this one, too. Eluirë, his name was, and Mairon had clearly already had his fun. The elf had no eyes, and his arms had been hewn off at the elbows, a hideous and disfigured wreck of what had once been splendid to see.

“Hail, High King Nelyafinwë,” came Mairon’s slithering, dissonant voice from beyond his bars. “You seemed uninterested in my games yesterday. I thought you might like a pet to play with.”

Maitimo didn’t answer. No matter what he said, Mairon would turn it against him, and somehow force him to be the further ruin of Eluirë, who deserved none of this torture. If he spoke, Mairon would tell him Eluirë died for the crime of his words. If he stayed silent, Mairon would tell him Eluirë died for the crime of his reticence. Better to give nothing away.

Mairon watched him. For what felt like hours, days, Mairon watched him. “Do not become boring, High King Nelyafinwë,” he warned. “You may play with your pet, if you like. Perhaps watching my little games has inflamed your own appetite, hm? You have one, as little as your pious folk like to admit it.”

“If I give him succor, you will only kill him to hurt me,” Maitimo said dully.

“Yes,” Mairon responded, and smiled. “But he will have had succor.”

Yes, he would.

Eluirë made a weak, frightened noise. Maitimo saw that his tongue had been split down the middle, and still bled despite being stitched into two neat halves.

Stupid. Foolish. Weak. Sentimental. He heard Morifinwë and Turcafinwë’s voices in his mind, chiding him for his naïveté.

But Findekáno would have done it.

His body hurt. He ignored that, and gathered Eluirë into his arms, helping him up into a sitting position, resting against his chest. He had done this many times for his brothers, when they were small and afraid of some horror, though it could not compare to what he faced now. Turcafinwë had been prone to nightmare as a young boy, always running into his room, refusing to admit he was frightened, but not wanting to fall asleep until Maitimo told him a story where the brave Valar Oromë threw down his enemies, and was victorious.

“Don’t try to speak,” he said softly, when Eluirë made a move to do so. “You are gravely injured, but brave. Surely, when your spirit passes, Námo will quickly see you returned to life, whole and unbowed.”

Despite his warning, Eluirë opened his mouth, and choked out around his injured tongue, “My King...I am afraid.”

Maitimo closed his eyes. It didn’t seem right that he could see, was whole, and still had sweet dreams. “So am I.”

Through the bars, Mairon smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Itarillë fell.

Findekáno was too far. His axe was buried in the ice, three of his men dangling from it, saved from the water only by the strength of his arms. He pulled, and shouted, horrified, as another chunk split, and little Itarillë (not so little now, she must be nearly thirty, but still so slender and light) plunged into the ice. There was no time--a scream--

And then a flash of gold, as Elenwë dove in after, heedless of the peril. Findekáno struggled to pull up his warriors, heartsick, watching the icy blackness cover his sister-in-law, his niece.

Silver and blue streaked by. Findekáno watched, helpless at the end of his rope, as his brother threw off the retainers trying to restrain him, backhanded one down to the ice, and dove into the water, just as two glaciers smashed together above him, grinding ice to powder. Findekáno felt his mouth open in silent horror, as the last of his men made it to the relative safety of his ice shelf, the rope finally free. Desperate, he tossed it into the water. It looked pathetic and invisible in the darkness.

There was no help for it. Findekáno grabbed the rope, and ran for the precipice, ready to leap off, when a hand split the water, reaching up to grip the side of the ice. It slipped, and would have disappeared, but Findekáno caught it, and pulled with all his might.

Turukáno emerged, blue-faced and grim, looking as if he had aged a lifetime in one minute. In his arms was Itarillë, teeth chattering, sobbing into her father’s shoulder.

Turukáno handed the child to Findekáno, then dove back into the water. She clung to him, no matter that she was nearly grown, no matter that she was nearly as tall as he was, and he let her, no matter that she was soaked through every layer, and the frozen water chilled him beyond pain.

He counted breaths. In and out, listening for the ice’s cracking. In and out, waiting for the sound of the waves to change, a sure sign that one of the floes would sink or rise, then crash against another. In and out, because his brother was not dead, could not be dead, was too strong and vital and important to be lost to the ice. In and out, and in and out, because he could not tell their father that stalwart, unbreakable Turukáno, who had dreamed of a house with fountains and a fair free city of his own, could be gone.

Just as he was about to turn away with Itarillë, the sea split again. The hand that grasped his this time was weaker, as if it had taken all of Turukáno’s effort to reach up. His fingers were clawed with bitter cold, his face a pale, deathly white, but he climbed out of the water, with help.

Turukáno took Itarillë from him. Except to her, he did not say another word for a year, after Elenwë slipped beneath the frozen ice, her fair golden hair resting in the Helcaraxë forevermore.

~

In a dream, they were on the cliff above Alqualondë, and the weather was kind.

Maitimo was with him.

He always started cold. His body would not unfreeze, it seemed, until Maitimo held him close. When his face and tongue thawed enough to speak, he turned, and filled his eyes with the sight he hungered for day and night, far more than food.

But Maitimo had never flinched away from his gaze when they were truly together. Now he did, as if he were mastering himself not to hide. This was the fourth dream; Findekáno numbered them dearly, those moments of surcease, in his long journey across the ice. Each time, at first, he appeared cold, and Maitimo hale and strong. As the dreams continued, he would thaw, and Maitimo would diminish, though he always tried to keep Findekáno from seeing.

“Will you tell me where you are?” He kept the words gentle. When one of them grew upset, the dream would end.

Maitimo gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Think of me as being in the Halls of Mandos,” he said, and brushed a kiss to his lips. “It is better that way.”

“It is not,” Findekáno informed him, and clung to his warmth. “And if you were, I should go there to find you.”

“With your harp and your bow?”

“Aye, and come back with harp, bow, and you in my arms.”

He watched, as Maitimo lost his hair. It was not so short as it had been the first time, but uneven and uncombed, hardly enough to cover his ears. With hesitant fingertips, he traced the lines of appearing wounds and scars--always more than he remembered from the previous dream, some of them looking like clawmarks, some of them the burned and jagged marks of a brand, some of them like slashes from a blade, the most disturbing ones like bruises from fingertips. He counted those now--sets of four, up and down Maitimo’s sides, down to his hips and thighs, with corresponding thumb prints on the other side, as if he were always being held from behind. “Maitrus?” he asked, after counting to forty, his voice uncertain.

There was an odd, hollow pain in Maitimo’s eyes when he looked down, and brushed a hand gently over Findekáno’s face. “I do not...” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard, turning away, his shoulders slumped. “I do not think you could find me now. When you finish the crossing--go to Macalaurë. He has something for you.”

“I want nothing. Only you.” He had never spoken of the crossing in their dreams, but Maitimo was no simpleton, and he was always frozen cold at the start.

For the first time, someone intruded into their dream.

He watched, as pale hands that did not belong to him slid around Maitimo’s waist, and his husband went rigid, eyes bright with horror, fear, and rage. “No, no, not here, not here, not with him,” he pleaded in a small voice that sounded nothing like the mighty prince Findekáno knew, and struggled, but the arms held him tight against a tall elf that appeared, fair of face and red-gold of hair, majestic and beautiful, with eyes that shone with forbidden fires.

“Not here?” asked the creature, for he could be no elf, not with the way Maitimo was striking at him, trying to free himself. Findekáno felt frozen again, this time in shock, watching the dream-creature run his hands possessively over Maitimo’s battered body, lingering lovingly on every gash and bruise. “But my King, did you not promise yesterday to satisfy me whenever I wished? My loyal plaything?”

“Liar,” Maitimo hissed in fury and humiliation, and whipped his head around, biting at the strange creature’s face. His teeth sank in, and the creature pulled back, lips curled into a snarl.

He raised a hand to his face, watching the long pale fingers come away sticky and red. Maitimo had ripped off a chunk of skin as long as his thumb, and spat it out with the blood. “So much passion,” the creature murmured, its breath quickening in unmistakeable arousal. “And the Master had thought you broken already. He will be most pleased to hear of this, Your Majesty.”

Then the creature was gone, leaving Maitimo kneeling on the cliff above Alqualondë, a ruined wreck of the once-proud prince.

Maitimo’s shoulders quivered, and he whispered, “You could not find me now, Finno. And if you could...I would only beg you to kill me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes, Mairon captured other elves. They did not know him, did not know his name, and did not call him King. There was no Light in their eyes, but they were still the Eldar, and Mairon hated them obsessively.

Mairon had never left behind his disappointment that Maitimo was not his father, did not have the fires of creation in his soul, and could teach him nothing of forging that he had not learned for himself. It seemed like a very long time ago, when Mairon had been eager to see him, determined to prize out his secrets. Now his only mission was to torment, in vengeance for not having Fëanor himself to torture.

Sometimes, he brought the Sindar and Silvan in by ones and twos. His favorite game was to invite Maitimo to share in their pain. “I will scourge you no more, if you take up the whip,” he whispered, his voice a silken caress. “I will touch you no more, if you bear her down to the floor and mount her.”

He had refused.

Mairon loved it when he refused. It just proved, he insisted, that Maitimo loved his touches so, whether his hand or his lash, so he must give Maitimo far more of both.

He did. Maitimo bore it.

But then Mairon had made a wreck of the young elven maiden, who had cast herself at his feet, pleading for him to help her in a strange tongue. He had refused to injure, so he had been chained, tortured in front of her, before the orcs had torn her limb from limb, and eaten her in great slovenly bites before her still-flickering eyes.

So the next time Mairon offered him an elf, he agreed, much to Mairon’s delight. The young man had golden hair, though he was nowhere near so fair as Ingoldo.

“Whatever you do to him,” Mairon purred in his ear, “I will not do to you for one week, Your Majesty.”

“I do not wish to be spared,” Maitimo replied, and broke the young elf’s neck, watching the dim lights fade from pale green eyes.

~

Orcs were not intelligent creatures. They could speak, a little, and could perform all bodily functions (Maitimo had been witness or part of too many to ever think about), but none of them were quick-thinking. Maitimo always watched, and waited, and finally, saw his chance.

The elf-maid Mairon brought in this time was far too young to have been a warrior. She didn’t even look as if she had attained her majority, and Maitimo didn’t miss that this seemed to excite Mairon even further.

“Your Majesty,” Mairon murmured in his dissonantly lyrical voice, determined always to give him the title he little thought of as his own. “Can you move? I know, my creatures were a _bit_ over-zealous in their playtime, were they not?”

Maitimo opened one eye. The other was swollen shut. His leg, he thought, was broken, and not for the first time in this place. At least it was only one leg this time. His eye flickered over the maiden, and he pulled himself slowly to his feet. The brands on his soles burned as if they were still being seared there, when he had smelled his own burning flesh and bitten down on his cheek not to retch. If he vomited, he would only have to clean it up with his tongue. He’d learned that much by now.

Mairon thought it was funny, he thought, to turn him into an executioner. “King Kinslayer,” he often murmured in delight, though Maitimo tried to remind himself he was sparing them the pain he felt himself, giving them the mercy no one would give him in the dark beneath the world.

Mairon never gave him blades or instruments, trusting to the strength of his arms. Maitimo had never failed in that regard, as weak as he knew he had become. Sometimes Mairon brought him elves he had played with, the ones that had lived through his little games but not been corrupted. The ones that fell, he kept, twisting and ruining them for centuries. The ones that still clung to some light, he brought to Maitimo, always with the offer. “Whatever you do to her,” he promised, “I will not do to you for one week.”

This young elf had not been tainted by Mairon’s tools or creatures, yet. She was unblemished and pale, with soft brown hair and wide grey eyes. She couldn’t have been older than little Itarillë, though he knew little of how the Moriquendi aged. “Hush, little sister,” he said softly, when she looked at him and quailed, at his fell expression, ruined form, or the filth that clung to him. “The darkness will soon pass.”

He was not expecting her to throw herself into his arms, clinging to him, sobbing. She was like a pale shade of Írissë, who had woven him thongs for his hair as the light of the Trees mingled, and ridden out laughing to the hunt with Turko and Kurvo.

“Tell me your name,” he said gently, and hoped she understood. “That I may remember you in my prayers to the Valar.” He spoke no prayers to the Valar, had not for many years, once he understood they would selfishly not grant his pleas for death. But for this innocent, he might speak those names once more.

“Ilardhel,” she whispered against his ear. She spoke again, in that slippery tongue, and he only caught one word in two, but knew a plea for mercy when he heard one.

He did not expect the hard handle of a hunting knife pressed against his side. The orcs, overzealous and overstupid, had missed it.

“Go swiftly to the Halls, Ilardhel, then back to your people,” he told her, low and clear and with as much of the inflection of her people as he could manage around his bruised tongue.

He kissed her brow. She wept, clutching at his bare shoulders, for he had not been granted the modesty even of rags for years now.

Then his hands, still large and strong despite what had been made of him, took her head between them, twisted, and it was over.

He caught her as she fell, a lovely child’s form now turned to nothing more than an empty shell.

Mairon sighed, and rolled his eyes, turning away as if the softness disgusted him. “When you are gentle to them, Your Majesty, you only make me hungry to hurt you more. You know this.”

“I know this.”

“Yet you persist.”

Maitimo eased the knife out of her belt, hiding it as best he could between his arm and his ribcage. “I am what I am.”

“No,” Mairon hissed, turning suddenly on him, his fey eyes ablaze. “You are what I _create_ you to be! Long before I have the pleasure of tossing that copper head to your haughty brothers, I will show you how _alike_ we are, you and I. You will find pleasure in their breaking, their sullying, their undoing, just as I do. Then, you will appreciate what I have done in enlightening you.”

Maitimo looked down at Ilardhel’s body, and felt cold. He wondered whether Mairon would leave the corpse with him until it rotted and burst. He’d done that before, always eagerly murmuring that he wouldn’t have to be so hungry if only he’d have a little taste, and what was the harm if the pretty elf was already dead?

Mairon saw him staring, and his lip curled. “You haven’t even earned that privilege today,” he informed Maitimo, and waved a hand to his orcs. “Feed this to the wargs. Then...I don’t care. Amuse yourself with the High King until I tell you to stop. Don't eat him. Anything else, do as you please.”

He had the knife. He could use it, on himself or on the orcs.

But he was weak, his leg broken, his vision compromised. Like this, they would not even find him a fight, and might stop him before he could end his own life.

No. He would not use it upon himself. He had lost that right, back in the Great Square of Tirion upon Túna, when he and his brothers had pledged to the Everlasting Dark. At least he could force them to kill him, and reduce their number in the act.

So while they took Ilardhel away, he buried the knife with shaking hands, and said two prayers. The first, to Námo and Estë, that Ilardhel may be swiftly taken to peace and healing, and know naught of what befell her _hröa_.

The second, to Manwë, though he had no right to ask, and knew it.

 _You loved him once, Father of Winds_ , he prayed, tamping the soil down over the hidden knife, then curling his knee to his chest, hearing the orcs return. He closed his eye as they took him, bearing him down to the dirt in their grunts and hisses. Bad enough to feel it. No need to see.

_Keep him safe. For the love you once showed, for his devotion unflinching, for whatever my broken spirit is worth._

_Keep him safe._

Without the Trees, there was no way to tell how long the night lasted.


	5. Chapter 5

Mairon left him alone for a month. “You, who have seen the light of the Trees,” he said, dangerous and silken. “You can repair that beautifully accursed form you wear, if I give you enough time, can you not? The Master wants to play with you again, so grow some new skin and bones for him to split, like a good playpretty.”

Then he did what he had never done, and gave him food.

It was no more than a bowl of gruel, but it was warm and it was _food_ , and Maitimo shuddered in relief as he ate. It was difficult, with his mouth as mangled as it was, his hands unable to assist him, but the gruel warmed him inside, stoked the fires in him that stubbornly refused to die.

The act was over too quickly, and Mairion was already smirking at him again. “Are those a High King’s table manners?” he asked, mock-dismayed. “Gobbling gruel from a simple wooden bowl? You dishonor your dear father with every breath, don’t you?”

 _Probably_. The thought was a dull ache by now, the loss of his father an old hurt.

Mairon left him in the dark, alone, for what he thought was a month at least. A month without Mairon’s creatures felt like a return to the blessed lands in terms of relief, and he wept often, for what was lost and what could never be regained.

He wept for his brothers, for surely Macalaurë had never desired a High Kingship, preferred to guide from one step behind and to the side, and loathed close scrutiny. He wept for his father, smote down by Balrogs within sight of the Thangorodrim, no matter how fey he had become at the last. He wept for Findekáno most often, until his eyes were sore and dry, but could not find any tears for himself.

He ordered his body to perish. It resisted. He ordered his soul to flee. That, too, was forbidden to him. The Oath burned at him, burning everything within him away until he, too, was nothing but ash, as his father had been.

When he was finished weeping, he lay down atop where he had buried the knife, and tried to dream.

But he could not find Findekáno.

~

“You think yourself _very_ clever, do you not?”

Mairon’s voice was a low, boiling hiss, that hardly made it through the sound of Maitimo laughing. The blood of the orcs he’d killed splattered his naked body, caustic and sticky, but he cared not. Far sweeter was the blood on his knife now, though they had taken it from him, shattered it along with his hands, when Morgoth had had to pull him bodily off of Mairon as he stabbed and slashed, disfiguring that beautiful, horrible face.

Morgoth had smote him to the cavern floor. His rage had been terrible. Maitimo had been so, so certain that it was the end, had laughed in berserk joy, beyond ready to flee to the halls of Mandos for some rest and penance at last.

But the final strike had not come.

He’d trembled, aching for it, longing for nothing else, as Morgoth had crushed his ribs, his arms, his legs. He took the mace to one side of his face, and felt teeth shatter, one eyeball pop free of his skull with a sickening sound. He felt it begin when his chest caved in, that beautiful, much-desired separation, finally casting aside his loathsome body for the peace of darkness.

Then Mairon had started to sing.

As Morgoth had subsided, he sang, though he was rent with wounds all over his body, bloody gashes opened in his face, his chest, his lovely thighs. He had sung, and Maitimo’s worst wounds had closed, his ruptured heart re-sealed, his airways opened.

“Get him,” Morgoth snarled, driving his mace into the ground with a blow that shook the earth, “out of my sight. Where he can unbury no more _trinkets_. Where his fine _brothers_ can see what you have made of him.”

“Kill me!” Maitimo screamed the words, trying to grab for any part of Morgoth he could reach, but his bones were ground to powder, everything gone numb and unresponsive. “No matter where you chain me, I will never, _never_ stop!” He laughed, and heard his father’s wild tones in it, even as he felt his shattered ribs piercing his lungs.

Still Mairon sang.

He sang until Maitimo was merely broken, rather than crushed. He sang until the blood pumped through his veins, but did nothing for the pain.

The orcs hauled him out at Mairon’s command. Mairon threw a cloak over his face, hiding his new decorations, and marched him out to the Thangorodrim, spitting insults the whole time. Maitimo could not stop laughing, and numbered the sight of Mairon’s otherworldly beauty being disfigured under only the memory of Findekáno’s smile, in his most cherished moments.

Mairon shoved a chain into a stout orc’s hands, and fed it down the side of the mountain. Several of the creatures held it, and lowered it slowly down, Maitimo draped over Mairon’s shoulder.

He had not taught Mairon how to forge the unbreakable metal. He had not known how. His father had, but creation had lived in the soul of Fëanor, son of Finwë.

The chain stopped descending. The manacle fastened around his wrist, his body painfully stretched out as the bones ground against each other. Mairon gave him one more bloody, baleful glare of disgust, and then, he was gone.

Maitimo was alone, on the side of the Thangorodrim.

~

Years passed on the ice. Findekáno watched his sister turn fierce and hard, growing edges like icicles. He sprinted from one glacier to another, and lost more loyal, kind soldiers than he could count.

He missed the dreams.

Every time they found a sturdy place to rest, he hoped. But since that last time, when that creature had slid its arms around Maitimo and pulled him back, calling him _King_ and _plaything_ in the same breath, there had been no more. Perhaps Maitimo was unable to sleep. Perhaps he did not wish to see Findekáno again, like this. Perhaps he had been killed.

_Still, I would see you._

They came to a fearsome mountain of ice, its crags like razors, and dozens of elves slipped and fell, sinking into the waters or splattering upon the jagged rocks below.

_Still, I would see you._

Itarillë screamed whenever she did sleep, and woke up crying for her mother, begging her not to slip beneath the ice. Turukáno turned cold, and stared at things that were not there.

_Still, I would see you._

Once, they came to an impassable split, where the two halves of the world had truly been rent from each other by time and the One and the crashing of boulders. There was no way around, and no way back save the ice that had brought them this far.

Findekáno strung his bow, for the first time in years. The motion was familiar and strange all at once. It took him three tries, with the extra weight of the rope fixed to the arrow, but finally it struck the other side, and held.

He took off his bow, and handed the it and rope to his brother Arakáno, then ran across.

The arrow came free.

He fell.

He grabbed for the rope, and Arakáno pulled him back up, as the memory of the icy water squeezed him like a giant’s fist.

Five times he shot true, and the rope seemed to hold.

Four times he fell as the treacherous arrow came free.

The fifth time, he crossed it, and heard a ragged cheer go up from his people. His father’s eyes blazed with pride, and relief. Findekáno slammed his axe into the ice with all the strength he’d cultivated, the memory feeling more familiar to him than any other after the long years on the glaciers. “Come,” he called, and secured the rope. “The sons of Ñolofinwë will not let you fall!”

_And still, my bright flame. Still I would see you._

But no dreams came.


	6. Chapter 6

Maitimo stopped trying to count time. Nothing changed. The rock was behind him. The air was in front of him. The stars were above him. True sleep eluded him. He fell unconscious sometimes, and only knew how long by how much his hair had grown when he awakened. His bones began to re-knit, lancing him with pain as they shifted and ground underneath his skin. He thought vaguely that they were healing wrong, stretched out asymmetrically as he was, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Rain fell; not the gentle, warming rain of the plains of Aman, bathing the diamond streets and golden roofs of Tirion upon Túna. This was a violent tempest, lashing his skin, lightning showing him a strange land in briliant, painful flashes. He opened his mouth, and tasted clean water for the first time in many years, and trembled with the anguish of want.

He broke all the bones in his right hand, again and again, trying to force it out of the manacle so he could fall to his death at last.

Still it held him.

~

Sometimes, the ice almost felt like home. Maybe Findekáno had gone mad. If so, he liked the change. He started to sing again. At first, even his cousins looked at him as if he were insane. But he persisted, and after a few long hours, Ingoldo brought out his harp, and they sang songs of home.

~

Maitimo kept expecting Mairon to appear, a smile on his lips and instruments in his hands. He didn’t. Perhaps his wounds were deeper than Maitimo had thought. Perhaps he had forgotten Maitimo, chained to the Thangorodrim,

Something bright white split the darkness.

Maitimo gasped, the brightness after so long in the soft glow of the stars something terrifying, unreal. He heard the screams of Morgoth’s creatures far below, his heart racing as he stared at the orb in the sky, casting everything into light and shadow.

It was nothing like the light of Telperion, and it was everything like the light of Telperion. His breath came shallowly, and he cried out, naming the Valar, speaking for the first time in years.

“Varda, Star-Kindler!” he called, his voice hoarse and ragged. “Yavanna, who sang the Trees to light! Is this a sign? Am I to do something? Are--are they here?”

He laughed, unhinged and exhausted beyond bearing. He remembered believing he had to eat rats to keep from starving, and laughed harder at the sweet, stupid fantasy that he’d ever thought he would be allowed to die. “Is that so Námo can find me, and take me to the Halls at last? Take me! Take me! Let me die! What am I still here _for?_ What possible part of the plan could this be?”

The glowing orb in the sky turned the trees in the distance silver-blue, but had no answers for him.

~

The sound was raucous, unfamiliar, and startled Findekáno into sudden wakefulness. It took a long time for it to make sense, but then he was running, eyes wide, laughing wildly. “The gulls!” he cried, relief and triumph shooting through him. “Father! Turo! Aro! Írissë! The gulls!”

It was Atarillë who roused herself first. She never slept soundly, even more than a decade after her fall. There was more than enough space on the rock they’d found for their whole army to sleep, at this point, as diminished as they were. Atarillë stood, eyes wide, blinking up at him in the dark. “What are they?” she asked, clearly frightened. “Uncle, what are they?”

At her voice, Turukáno sat up, followed by the rest of them in hazy, drowsy lethargy.

Findekáno ran back and forth, his eyes alight. “The gulls,” he repeated, unable to say any more, his voice choking up. “They live on...on land.”

Then the night changed.

Light shone, so suddenly that Findekáno lost his footing, going skidding on the ice. He nearly slid down the long crevasse next to the rock and into the water, but caught himself with the motion born of long practice, slamming his axe into the ice.

A strong hand caught his wrist, pulling him up easily. The light shone in his father’s eyes, and his grip was stronger than when they’d left Aman, long years of hardship aside. “We’re nearly there,” his father said. and Findekáno saw tears in his eyes.

He returned the grip, with a fierce grin. “I told you I had no doubt.”

They hadn’t spoken, in more than thirty years, of his marriage. Findekáno had long since decided that it wouldn’t matter, until there was a reconciliation, so a reconciliation there must be.

There _must_.

~

Maitimo hadn’t thought he would miss the long dark.

At first, he had felt glory in the fiercer of the two lights in the sky that chased each other now, giving some structure to the days. He loved the way Morgoth’s creatures screamed, whenever they were forced to go outside, and ventured out only under the cover of darkness.

But in that long dark, it was easier to pretend he had already died, and was rotting there, chained only to a rock and not his hated mortal form. With the bold yellow light upon him, sometimes a stupid, fruitless, foolish hope kindled.

Surely, in that light, his brothers would come.

No matter how long it had been, his brothers would come. They must know that he, of all of them, would have endured.


	7. Chapter 7

Lake Mithrim was lovely. Seeing banners of other Noldorim, though they be the ones Findekáno had last seen leaving them behind on the Helcaraxë, brought relief to the hearts of many.

Weary, battered, and far fewer than they should have been, Findekáno set off with his father and his host, until they found a young sentry.

“Where is the High King?” his father asked, and Findekáno realized with a jolt that he knew the answer, and that his father did not.

They had spoken of Fëanor. They had not spoken of his son. He had certainly not told his father about his dreams, and the fey creature that had called Maitimo _King_.

He had spoken to no one about his fears--that his dreams were real, that Maitimo had been taken by the Enemy nearly the entire time they were on the ice. He had no words for his fear now, because he had not had a dream like that for many years.

The sentry bowed, seeing Ñolofinwë’s noble bearing. “The High King,” he said, and turned. “Yes, my lord. I will take you to him.”

They followed the sentry, Ñolofinwe, Findekáno, and Turukáno. Arakáno’s absence was a dark, empty ache, and none of them looked to where he would have walked.

The camp looked settled. Trenches of long use had been dug, fortifications build, and Findekáno even saw small children chasing each other about. There were laundry lines, firepits, and signs everywhere of life enduring, more of a settlement than a temporary camp. It had been long, since Findekáno had heard a child’s voice.

“Are you ready?” his father asked out of the corner of his mouth, as they paused in front of the largest tent, the banners of the eight-pointed star flying overhead.

Findekáno looked up, surprised. “For what?”

“To see him. You know he will be with his father, as he has always been.”

“He is not here.”

Turukáno turned to stare at him. “You mean Nelyo? How do you know?”

“I just--“

The tent opened. “Uncle?” asked Macalaurë, looking just as stunned as Ñolofinwë. There was a silver crown upon his head.

Findekáno saw it. He saw it, and knew then, that the dreams were real.

Somehow, he mastered himself. It was the sort of thing he would have been unable to do, back in Valinor, when he and Maitimo had been so innocent and free, and had worried only for timing and causing small strife.

Macalaurë’s eyes flicked to Findekáno, then back to his father. The crown looked heavy on his handsome face, too thick for his features, a harsh contrast with the elegant jewels that always glinted at his neck and ears. “You had better come inside,” said the King, and opened the tent flap for them.

~

Sometimes, Maitimo just screamed, as loudly as he could, as long as he could, until his voice gave out.

It was something to do.

~

“He is dead.” Tyelcormo was the one who said it aloud, at the hastily-convened council. There were the wrong number of brothers at the table. Aro should have been with himself and Turo; Maitimo should have been with his cousins. It was as if a lovely smiling mouth were missing two front teeth.

Macalaurë had been heartsick to learn of the Battle of Lammoth, and had promised to write Arakáno a tender lament, that painted him in bold colors. Findekáno thought his father had liked that. Bound by his father’s dark Oath he may be, but Macalaurë had still the fairest voice and most eloquent tongue Findekáno had ever heard.

Tyelcormo’s words did not penetrate, for a long time. What had been asked? Yes, his father had asked about his brother, Fëanor, and they had heard the sad tale of the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Then he had asked, unable to help himself, about Maitimo, and Tyelcormo had said--

“He is dead.” Carnistir echoed the statement, stone-faced.

Neither of the youngest brothers would look at Findekáno. They seemed older now, in more than years, and as if they were listening to the trees even now, even inside the tent.

He looked to Curufinwë, who he had never known by his amiliessë, and to the fair strong youth beside him. “He is dead,” Curufinwë said, though more slowly, and he frowned.

Findekáno heard his heart beating in his chest. “Tell me how he died,” he said, and folded his hands, to stop them from shaking. “For the sake of our ancient friendship. Please, cousin.”

“Brave Nelyafinwë took his host to the very Thangorodrim, under flag of truce,” Macalaurë said, his eyes cast down, not meeting Findekáno’s. “And there, by Morgoth the Shadow, was betrayed. All his host fell, and were killed.”

Findekáno watched Tyelcormo and Curufinwë exchange a subtle look, then break it. The Ambarussa shifted, uncomfortable.

“We are sorry for your loss,” his father said, sounding genuine. “But we must discuss what the great host of the Noldor will do now. This camp upon the shores cannot be held forever. We must go South.”

“We?” That was Tyelcormo, his fair brows raised in scorn. “The sons of Fëanor raise their own flag, and not yours, Uncle. Father was the High King, and now it is Kanafinwë. Are you not come to bow to him?”

Ñolofinwë’s face was a mixture of regret and anger, and he shook his head. “I have not come across the ice to follow you in your mad Oath and quest for destruction, my brother’s children or no.”

“You are his half-brother,” Carnistir cut in sharply. “Our father held no love for you, and neither do we.”

“And you are fully fools,” Ñolofinwë snapped, and stood. “We will make camp. When you come to your senses, we may plot against the Enemy, rather than each other.”

He turned, and stalked off, followed by Turukáno on his heels. Findekáno followed. He had no reason to stay behind.

Maitimo wasn’t there, after all.

~

He asked them separately, over the next few months, what had happened to Maitimo’s body.

“Morgoth cast it down in front of us,” Tyelcormo told him on the hill overlooking the lake, and looked away. “He...he was no more than bones. We burned all the fallen.”

“Morgoth hewed him limb from limb,” Carnistir said bluntly, in the Council room. “We were only given his head. It lies with our father’s ashes. Do not ask to see it.”

“We only heard about it,” the Ambarussa said, and it was Aro who could tell them apart, not Findekáno. “From what the scouts reported, for Russandol forbade any of us to come close enough to see the battle.”

“What does it matter?” Curufinwë snarled, hammer in his hand, as Findekáno hung about his forge. “He is dead. Forget him.”

Last, he sought out Macalaurë, and did not begin by asking his question. He was able to come and go wither he willed in either camp; Macalaurë had insisted upon it, according to Tyelcormo. Findekáno wasn’t certain why, until Macalaurë put something in his hand, once they were alone.

The chain was broken, but Findekáno recognized it. How many nights had he touched it, seen it, traced its contours around Maitimo’s neck? When he’d thought of it, he’d imagined it tarnished, or taken along with Maitimo, but the rings were polished, shining, and unbattered.

“He left them with me,” Macalaurë said, with a gentle regret that hurt far worse than Tyelcormo’s abrasive snarls. “Before his last march. He said he knew you’d come. And to tell you that if he perished there, he would take the path of our grandmother, and release you.”

“Is he dead, then?” Findekáno heard his own voice, and was amazed at how steady it was. "You, closest to me of his brothers, I think will not lie to me. You know what is wrought between us."

"He must be dead." Macalaurë's voice is bleak. "He was struck down not two days after our father, and that was more than thirty years ago, as we now count the time."

"Struck down," Findekáno repeated, and swallowed. "But not killed."

Grief painted Macalaurë's lovely features, settling into the fine laughter lines that had been cultivated over centuries. "...One scout returned. Bauglir's host of balrogs struck him down, but removed him from the field, still fighting. I have to hope that he died of his wounds, for I heard they were many, and grievous."

"Hope?" Findekáno demanded, eyes suddenly blazing, and understood. "So you need not feel guilt, for not rescuing him from the Enemy? So you need not think of him, scourged and branded and violated, in that stronghold? You would rather him dead?"

"Than in torment, aye, or turned!" Macalaurë's eyes were wild, but beseeching. "No one comes out of Angband, Findekáno. The only ones the Shadow releases are those that have become his creatures. Morgoth keeps him only to tempt us into rash action. Would you see Russandol thus? Serving the Enemy? A ruin of all he once was?"

"No." Findekáno took the rings, and wrapped the broken chain around his fingers. "But I would see him."

~

His father was kind.

"I am sorry," he said gravely, "for what you have lost. Whether it was my will or no, I have never known you to love with less than your whole heart."

_But he isn't dead._

Findekáno did not speak the words, but accepted the feelings for the kindness they were. "Thank you, Father. I am far from the only one to lose that which I would have kept forever dear, since that day."

"I will not tell you what you should do, but perhaps..." His father gave him a sad smile. "Perhaps you should tell your brother. He, too, has lost much. You two may understand each other better at last."

"This is not the last." Findekáno gripped his father's shoulder, and smiled. "Did you not see the camps? There is life here in Middle-Earth, worth defending, worth building. Perhaps Írissë will bring some unlucky soldier to heel, and Turo and I will have a nephew to spoil and fuss over, once the Shadow has been defeated."

"You are always so certain."

"We crossed the ice, did we not?" Findekáno laughed, and felt himself curiously light, set in his purpose once more, though he did not share it this time.

~

"Where are you going?"

Findekáno paused, and slowly looked up.

Turukáno stood, his arms crossed, lit from behind by the fires of their father's camp, blocking his pathway up the hill. Findekáno moved to walk around him, but Turukáno put out an arm, his long reach easily blocking him from ducking out through the rocky path away from the lake.

"You are too tall," Findekáno complained. "And your arms too long. Have I ever told you that?"

"Where are you going?" his brother asked again, ignoring him.

"I'm going for a walk." It wasn't a lie. He would certainly be walking.

Turukáno narrowed his eyes. "With your bow?"

"I am an archer, am I not? I may wish to hunt. There is so much game in these lands, you know. After the ice, it is as if every day is a feast."

"And your harp?"

"I may grow bored. My own voice pleases me."

That drew a snort from his brother. "It always has," he muttered, and for a moment, the ghost of his old humor, as dry and stuffy as it might have been, was in his voice. "When will you return?"

"When my walk is finished."

"If you would take counsel--"

"Thank you, but I would not."

Turukáno stared hard at him. Findekáno looked back, unwavering. His brother might suspect, but he did not _know_.

Finally, his brother's gaze flicked away, and he sighed. "Do not make me lose one more thing to the Fëanorians. I think I should kill them all, if I did."

Findekáno shouldered his unstrung bow, and smiled. It would be a long walk, of at least a few weeks, if the maps were correct. The least he could do was leave his brother with a smile. "Worry not. If I die, it will be the Enemy you must revenge yourself upon, Turo. And in that case, should you not be beside me?"

"Beside you? So we can die together?"

"Beside me, that we might _win_ , little brother." It looked fun to mess up a little brother's hair, the way he'd seen Maitimo do countless times. Reaching so far up for it, for Turukáno's chin was level with the crown of his head, lacked the same appeal. He turned, and over his shoulder, called, "If I fall, I'll await your trumpets. But after all, I'm only going for a walk!"

With his harp, and his bow.

~

Often, Maitimo saw and heard things that were not there.

He saw, more times than he could count, a host of the Noldor, the eight-pointed star waving on the banners, coming to beseige the gates. But whenever they came close enough that he would have been able to see individual faces, they faded, blown away as dust in the wind.

He heard songs, sweet and strange, and thought the trees might be whispering to him.

The brightest light in the sky shown down on him, a pale reflection of Laurelin that had washed the world in riches so long ago, when he was...something. Something different.

He thought he might have been different, once.

And one day, he heard a song, heartbreakingly beautiful, in a voice that recalled him to life so suddenly it shocked him. Every ache and injury stung him as if it had just happened, as if he could even now feel Mairon's claws sinking into him. But the song was stronger, unfaltering, and kindled a white-hot fire inside of him that burned away everything but memory, everything but the sudden, fierce desire to live in that song until the end of all things.

So he sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W h e w thanks for making it through that with me! I had to post it all at once so I could start to recover from writing it <3 
> 
> Also heads up, I am extremely busy for the next several days, so apologies in advance if it takes much longer for the next installment to come out! (This fic is already written up through and including Kidnap Family era, so it WILL be posted, don't worry)
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading and commenting, it absolutely makes my day and drives me to write more! Also feel free to come chat with me [on tumblr](https://nikosheba.tumblr.com/)! (I know, I'm startled I'm back on tumblr after 6 years too. Blame Silm.)


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